


Lavellan Writes Romance!

by pokey_jr



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Codex Entries (Dragon Age), Developing Relationship, Dragon Age In-Universe Book: Swords and Shields, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Shameless Smut, The Randy Dowager Quarterly, embarrassing hobbies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 11:27:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4874974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pokey_jr/pseuds/pokey_jr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inquisitor Lavellan secretly hoards romance novels, such as copies of “Swords and Shields” and The Randy Dowager Quarterly. She reads pretty much any smut she can get her hands on, fangirls big time, and finally starts writing her own series anonymously, and terribly. For her characters, she uses poorly-veiled pseudonyms for herself and Solas, because of course that’s who her fantasies are about. The trouble only starts when Solas finds it...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

Ellana flicked the ticklish plume of her feather quill against her own ear, absent-minded and only vaguely frustrated so far. How did they make it look so easy? The authors of her favorite stories were mostly anonymous, Varric being the high-profile exception, so it wasn’t like she could fly a message over to them to ask how they did it. At this rate her inkwell would dry up from having the lid off too long. She hadn’t written three words. She moved to touch the nib to the parchment in her personal journal, only to be stymied again, this time by the force with which she had touched the implement to the surface. Slammed was more like it. The tip of the nib had snapped off, and the shaft of the feather was cracked halfway up. The Inquisitor groaned and threw it aside, then stood from her desk.

 

This should be simple. She had the nicest quarters in Skyhold, all to herself. As far as she knew, the roof to Cullen’s office was still partly caved in, and he wrote at least seven reports per day, plus he oversaw publication of that monthly ‘soldier’s newsletter’, which Vivienne claimed had the potential to be a wildly popular stage play in Val Royeaux. Varric, the dwarf from Kirkwall, trained and fought just as hard as anyone in her Inner Circle, plus still found time to put out new volumes of _Hard in Hightown_ just about every month.

 

Ellana knew she was being stubborn. She could just ask Varric for advice. All she needed to know was how to start. But then he might ask for details, and she couldn’t very well give him any of those, not when they involved...well… She glanced at the modest stack of periodicals and novels, one borrowed legitimately, the rest pilfered, all embarrassingly salacious. She should really keep them hidden, but she read them so often. Taking them in and out of a desk drawer would be a waste of time when no one should have access to her private quarters in the first place. Though, Solas occasionally dropped off research notes and musings on the Fade and various artifacts; he always seemed to manage this delivery when she wasn’t around. Could he have seen her choice of reading material? The possibility that he had was mortifying, though a small part of her thrilled at the idea.

 

Normally he barely spared her a glance. He seemed eternally busy with some arcane endeavor, and obviously avoided her unless it was absolutely necessary to talk. Their conversations, rare as they were, focused on The Mission. Any time she tried to steer the topic away from Corypheus or the Rift, he steered it right back, the smooth tenor of his voice leveled to an infuriating calm. Sometimes she thought he spoke to her (and everyone else) as if she were a child, and he was doling out gentle instruction on why she should always obey her elders. That was what bothered her, more than anything, more than the patronizing tone or his clear and baffling disdain for her and her Dalish ways. She wanted to see him lose his calm, wanted to poke and prod at his erect composure until he dashed his teacup against the wall in anger, swiftly stood from his desk and swept her up in his arms--- No, that was enough of that.

 

Lavellan had, quite a few months ago, come to terms with the fact that Solas intrigued her, but she felt she had to be careful with how far she let her imagination roam with regards to that particular subject. At times, this acknowledgement weighed on her mind more than the infatuation itself, though she still couldn't quite admit that it was infatuation. More like an intense interest. After all, she wanted to be familiar with all the members of her Inner Circle. It was dangerous not to be on good terms with those who fight alongside you.

 

Still, something about him was strangely attractive. She had tried to say as much to Sera, during a rather sloshy heart-to-heart, but had been loudly and brusquely informed that she had terrible taste. Arguing the point had only resulted in a brief competition of Wicked Grace, punctuated by Sera’s inappropriate speculation about Solas’ baldness and whether it extended to the rest of his body. Lavellan herself had, in fact, fantasized about this very topic, but that wasn’t an admission to make to a mouthy elf with no sense of privacy.

 

She looked at the papers again. Perhaps it was time to resign this struggle for now. She needed to clear her head. Spending so much time up here alone would drive her crazy, with just the sound of the wind gusting in from the mountains. Down in the rest of the keep it was much warmer, and if she found a place by one of the hearths in the great hall she could be cozy and discreetly listen in on others’ conversations. That might give her some inspiration.

 

***

 

“Inquisitor!”

 

Lavellan sat forward and peered around the side of the plush high-backed armchair she currently occupied. Varric strode up with a mug in each hand.

 

“Is one of those for me?” She smiled. She had been very careful choosing this seat, and getting to it. Sometimes when Skyhold’s noble guests saw her linger among them, they took it as an invitation to besiege her with compliments, requests, and tedious small talk.  A stealthy approach had secured her this chair in the corner of the hall, facing one of the fires. So far no one had noticed her.

 

“Sure!”  Varric set one down in front of her, then pulled up another seat. For a moment, they  sipped the ale in companionable silence. Ellana wondered how she could broach the topic of writing without revealing that all she wanted to write was material worthy of publication in 'The Randy Dowager Quarterly'. Come to think of it, she didn’t even know Varric’s opinion on the periodical. Likely he thought it was drivel.

 

“So, have you heard anything good so far?” His question interrupted her meandering thoughts.

 

“I...what?”

 

“You know…” He lowered his voice and grinned, with the smallest movement of his head to indicate the crowd at their backs.

 

“Oh.” Apparently she wasn’t as subtle as she thought. Did they all realize what she was trying to do, and just left her alone out of politeness? She asked Varric as much and he laughed.

 

“Nah, they haven’t realized you’re here. I have to say, you’ve gotten good at that. Cole’s been teaching you some tricks?”

 

Ellana nodded and took another sip. “There hasn’t been anything really juicy yet. But last week I did hear that Lord Devereaux’s daughter was caught carrying on with one of the prisoners--an Avvar, I believe. She’d been sneaking into his cell for months, and never got caught, until we increased security last month.”

 

The dwarf chuckled, reaching across the low wooden table in front of them for a pack of Wicked Grace cards. “Care for a game?”

 

This gave her pause. She enjoyed the game, but was unbelievably bad at it, and had been told so by nearly everyone she had ever played with. Either it was bad luck or lack of skill, and after months of playing it regularly, practice should have won out. She shrugged. “Alright, but no bets. You know I never win.”

 

“Because you refuse to cheat.” He started setting up the cards, then dealt them each a hand.

 

Ellana barely looked at hers. “Cheating is for people who can’t win fairly.”

 

“Then perhaps you should cheat.”

 

She shook her head, then made a legitimate play, which prompted Varric to groan at how awful it was. “I can be underhanded when it counts,” she protested. Several more moves passed, and she thought she saw Varric slip a card out of his sleeve when she took another drink.

 

“Varric?”

 

“Hmm?” All innocence, though he pulled at his sleeve as if it felt too tight.

 

“How do you write so much?”

 

“Uh…” Clearly not the question he was expecting.

 

“I mean, where do you get your ideas? Aside from the one based on Hawke.”

 

He cleared his throat. “Well, I suppose everything I write is based on things I’ve seen, you know, observing the people around me. Or my own life. An idealized version of it, anyway. You’ve read _Hard in Hightown_?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“If there wasn’t a big hole in the sky, if my brother had never found red lyrium, hell, in a world where that shit didn’t exist, I’d like to dream that that’s what I could be doing. Just a mundane life with a twist of excitement here and there." He threw down another card and took a drink.

 

“What about _Swords and Shields_? Is that another life you’d like to lead?”

 

The dwarf’s loud, gravelly laugh drew some curious eyes, but his subsequent glare quashed the onlookers’ interest. “You’ve read that crap? Where did you even get a copy?”

 

“It’s not that bad! And I borrowed it from Cassandra.” That was false. She had taken it from the Seeker’s pack to keep herself awake during a watch shift one night in the Hinterlands, and never returned it. And didn’t want to. Any exchange would just be embarrassing. Though, now Varric knew her secret.

 

“I… really have to doubt your literary tastes now, Inquisitor,” he chuckled, shaking his head.

 

“Please, please don’t tell anyone.” She played another card without looking at it.

 

“You ought to think about your strategy before you make any moves, you know.” He laid out a full matched set of the Serpents. “You just won the game for me.”

 

“You’re welcome.” It was a struggle to try to appear disappointed. “You won’t tell anyone, right?”

 

“Everyone has a vice, Inquisitor. Lucky for you, yours is pretty harmless.  Don’t pick up gambling, though, because… well, you know why.” He glanced at the cards on the table and gave her a look of pity.

 

Ellana smiled back. “Thanks for the game, Varric. I’d better go, though, I think I heard Cullen storm in a few minutes ago with an agenda about the new barracks.”

 

Varric raised his mug in a silent toast as she got up and promised him, “I’ll try to win, one of these days.”

 

***

 

The meeting in the war council room felt interminably boring, the topics of discussion as dry as ever. It was Ellana’s duty to pay attention, and to care about these matters, however, so she tried her best to follow the debates about lodging, rations, diplomatic gestures, intelligence gathering, and every detail of operation required to maintain the Inquisition. She thought that many of these tasks should be delegated to officers, but all three of her advisors insisted that finding qualified and trustworthy people was still an issue, thus they had to spend all this time together.

 

It wasn’t a complete waste, though. She often let her mind wander, speculating about the private lives of her advisors. Not anything inappropriate, of course, just what sort of romantic adventures they might have were they characters in the stories reviewed in RDQ. Would Leliana’s prickly cloak-and-dagger persona shift to reveal a coy, innocent maiden? Well, maybe not innocent. She had heard that the spymaster had gotten around a bit during the time of the Fifth Blight. Who wouldn’t, when they think the world is ending?

 

The meeting concluded some hours later, Cullen grumbling that the overcrowding in the barracks wouldn't simply fix itself. Lavellan returned to her quarters, changed into a warmer outfit for the evening, and then headed for the tavern. Taking the stairs down the tower two at a time, she took stock of her outfit. It was simple: a deep blue tunic of soft wool over brown linen trousers, with short leather boots. She thought she cut a rather elegant figure, though while getting dressed she had considered adding a sweeping white fur-trimmed cape that had been a gift from an Orlesian comtesse. That same cape, upon its arrival at Skyhold, had sent Josephine into fits of laughter, and Dorian had commented that there was a famously dramatic Tevinter musician who dressed in that manner of costume for his performances.

 

So, the fabulous cape stayed tucked away for now. Once in the main hall, she walked briskly to ward off anyone who might want a moment of her time. She knew she couldn’t afford to slow down for anything, lest she be mobbed. Just before  reaching the huge double wooden doors leading to the main courtyard, shouts sounded from the rotunda, the large open room where Solas painted and conducted research on whatever obscure history he was interested in that week. Ellana paused. The voices--only two-- had drawn nearly everyone’s attention, and they noticed that she had noticed the argument. No choice now but to intervene; it was expected of the Inquisitor.

 

She sighed and strode under the two arches. Solas (it had been his voice, as she had thought) was standing with his arms crossed and staring down Cassandra imperiously, though he wasn’t much taller than her. Despite his rigid posture his voice carried, the lilt of his unique accent even more pronounced than usual.

 

“I assure you, Seeker, I had no hand in this latest farce perpetrated by the Mages of the tower!”

 

Cassandra, equally incensed, huffed out a loud groan. Lavellan was reminded of the Fereldan Frostback, and, as in the fight against the great beast, stayed well back, hugging the wall.

 

“They had your research notes, Solas!”

 

“As do Leliana and the Inquisitor! Copies are not hard to come by!” His eyes flicked to where Lavellan stood, and he lowered his voice slightly. “Now tell me, in what other ways am I implicated?”

 

The Seeker spluttered. Lavellan guessed that she was struggling not to say the word ‘apostate’.  “You--! They were trying to practice Rift magic! One boy is still in a coma!”

 

“Then with my notes they should have been well informed about the particulars.” His tone was calm, but held an air that sounded rather smug to Lavellan’s ear. Apparently Cassandra heard it too.

 

“Maker take you, Solas, what if they had summoned demons!? In Skyhold!” The Seeker stepped closer to him, her hand about to reach to her left hip. “One of those pathetic freaks who you pretend are simply gentle spirits! How can you claim to support the Inquisition when you spread this-- this dangerous rubbish to those who are most vulnerable!”

 

The mage grimaced. “They would not be vulnerable were they were not ignorant! If all you can do is accuse me of cultivating understanding of the arcane, then I plead guilty, and submit myself to your judgment.” When Cassandra took a moment too long gaping at his outburst, he turned on his heel and strode to the other set of arches that led out of the rotunda. Before the sound of the door banging open echoed through the room, Lavellan thought she heard him grumble “Dirthara-ma.”

 

Then Cassandra turned, saw her, and scowled.

 

“I trust you will deal with this, Inquisitor.” And the Seeker stalked up the spiral stairs out of sight, presumably to complain about this incident to Leliana.

 

***

 

_“I trust you will deal with this, Inquisitor.”_

 

Ellana had no intention of doing any such thing. A brief thought crossed her mind, to consider how she could have intervened in the argument and solved it diplomatically but at this point it seemed inconsequential. There was something far more important motivating her now. She returned to her quarters, found a fresh quill and uncapped her inkwell. A strange sort of excitement had seized her: she knew exactly where to start. It was making her a bit jittery. She dipped the nib and set to writing.

 

First, she needed names. Names for herself and Solas, though she would never admit that aloud. Best not to get too complicated with it, though.

 

 _Elisheva LeFevre_. This she scratched onto the paper with more confidence than she had written anything else in her life.

 

_Elisheva LeFevre watched the apostate’s retreating back as he stormed with righteous fury out of--_

 

Out of where? She would have to disguise things a little bit, for it to be believable.

 

_\--out of the cloister vault, the small retreat granted to him off of the main Chantry Hall.  It was a beautiful, serene space by grace of his handiwork: immense frescoes covered every surface, the subtlety of his brushwork evoking light and color seen only rarely in nature. Breathtaking, in a word.  And thus, she sympathized with his ire. The audacity, to approach him here, in this sanctuary of his creation._

 

Ellana sat back for a moment, trying to recall the intensity and the allure of seeing Solas so passionate. She needed a cover name for him.

 

 _Severus_. No, that wouldn't do. Too Tevinter. She scratched it out.

 

 _Sora..._ Too close to the real thing.

 

What about 'Sanford'? She wrote it out neatly to see how it looked but it just wasn't elvish enough.

 

Then it came to her.

 

 _Solveig_. Ellana sighed. Perfect. Just the right balance between exotic and sexy. Now, where was she...

 

_The audacity to approach him here, in the sanctuary of his own creation. Solveig was not known as a sociable man, in fact he was notorious for his impatience with the shallow imbeciles who milled outside his door and disrupted the peace he so carefully curated. And thus many avoided him, discounted his learning as antiquated, laughed at his modest clothes and shaven head, and clucked over his status as ‘apostate’. The only feature that went unremarked-upon was his pointed ears; they seemed slightly frightened that such an insult would turn his ‘elven wildness’ against them, and they would all be roasted alive in magefire._

 

_Elisheva hesitated just a moment in following him. She saw none of the faults others ascribed to him. Yes, he was an apostate, but only for the sake of his intellect, which made it quite understandable why he did not tolerate fools. His need for privacy and austere style were hallmarks of a devoted naturalist. And as for the pointed ears, Elisheva herself suffered from that affliction, and proudly._

_So she followed, confident she could help him, or at the very least--_

 

What? _Calm_? No, too simple. She had to show just how angry he was, and it had to be dramatic.

 

 _or at the very least quiet the savage tempest brewing behind that humble visage._ Yes. Excellent. Now it was time to move this along quicker. She wanted to get to The Good Stuff.

 

_Out on the ramparts the wind bit coldly into her skin as she looked around frantically to see where the apostate had gone. There! Despite his tall frame and broad shoulders, he could blend in with a crowd-- she suspected magic at play-- and he wound through the gathering of soldiers before stepping into a shadow._

 

_Elisheva pulled the sheer silk of her robe tighter around her slim figure, shivering against the freezing air. The sun had already dropped low in the sky, about to dip below the threshold of the mountain upon which the timeworn fortress was situated. The wind picked up again, whipping the long curls of her rosewood-brown hair out behind her as she hurried across the stone walkways._

 

(Ellana herself had a very practical approach to hairstyles, her own being only a bit longer than Sera's-- there was really no room under helmets for big masses of it. But this was her fantasy, and she could have whatever hair she wanted, damn it!)

 

_Being so short and slight, the elven woman skirted the formation with little trouble, only attracting a few interested stares before they turned back to their tasks. In the shadow where Solveig had disappeared, a door hung ajar. Elisheva eased through the gap and secured the latch behind her with the utmost care. Despite this effort, Solveig, whose back was to her, swung around in shock._

 

_“What are you doing here?” He snarled, advancing on her immediately. Elisheva couldn’t help noticing how his well-muscled legs moved with powerful strokes. In a breath he was less than an arm’s length away from her, his blue eyes darkened with…_

 

Damn, she had been on a roll. She needed more expressions for someone being angry.

 

_his blue eyes darkened with dangerous vexation._

 

_“Speak!” He demanded,  when she could not._

_“I--” Her response was cut short by a thunderous crash, followed by crunching, several shorter booms, and finally men shouting. Elisheva froze, fearing it was an attack by the mountain folk._

_Solveig stilled as well, and tilted his head slightly, listening for further indications of what had happened. “An avalanche, I believe,” he said after a moment, his voice still carrying the tension from earlier._

_“I hope no one is hurt!” Elisheva found her voice._

_Just then a second rumble sounded, this time seeming to come from both above and below them._

_“Careful!” The apostate shouted. “Get back!” Small pebbles from the ceiling began to fall on them, and then larger rocks. Fluidly, Solveig wrapped her in one arm, twisting her underneath him to protect her from the debris; with the other arm he cast a dome-like barrier around them just as half the ceiling caved in. Two wooden beams hit the glowing translucent shield in succession, falling to the side and piling around the buffer. More and more rubble fell, including pieces of furniture from the upper floors, until all natural light was blocked out. Without his quick spell, they would have been buried and crushed._

 

_“It appears we will have to await rescue,” he concluded._

_In that moment, under the glowing blue light of his magic, Elisheva realized just how close they were, Solveig’s arm half embracing her. She was pressed temptingly against his chest, enough that she could feel the toned muscles flexing as he supported their position. His loose linen shirt draped open, allowing her a tantalizing view._

_“How long can you maintain the barrier spell?” She asked, tearing her gaze from the forbidden, enticing presentation._

_Her voice seemed to remind him that he had a woman pinned beneath him, and he shifted without any obvious embarrassment to permit her a bit more space. Still, the hasty shelter he had thrown around them was barely the size of a single-person tent, its peak just high enough for both to sit up. Elisheva, even as short as she was, could not stand upright._

 

Ellana paused, wondering where to steer this encounter. Someone had to kiss someone, and soon. She didn’t think that she herself, in the same situation, would have the courage to initiate anything, especially not a kiss… especially not with Solas. He would probably scowl and wipe his mouth with his sleeve. That expression he had when drinking his tea, that was the one she feared seeing if he ever found out how she felt. And so it was even harder to try to imagine him being the one to kick things off. Would his passion for old texts and the Fade translate into any sort of romantic ardor? She tried to picture him as an eager lover, but it was totally wrong. Everything about him said ‘experienced’. Intensity seemed much more fitting, mage’s fire personified in the fervor of sex. Indeed, there was something animalistic about him that she had never even considered before. It brought a new and flustering dimension to the idea of 'doggy-style'.

 

Right. Focus.

 

_“I have no issues with endurance,” the apostate answered curtly. Even with his disgruntled expression, darkened by the stark shadows of the barrier’s glow, Elisheva found his sharp features handsome._

 

_“The only problem I foresee is one of focus. I must remain free of distractions, at least major ones. It would be best if you were silent.” Solveig lay back, laced his fingers together on his sternum and closed his eyes. Elisheva admired the high cut of his cheekbones, the strong profile of his nose, and the fullness of his lips. What if she just… kissed him? But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. The biggest risk she could take was to lie down next to him. The constraint of their protection, and the resulting forced proximity, meant she was mercifully warm, despite the thin damask silk of her shift. She was also highly conscious of how he smelled (bergamot and pine) and how the only way she could position herself left most of her body touching his upper arm._

_A minute later, Solveig sighed. “You are breathing too loudly.”_

_“Sorry…”_

_“And your breasts are pressed against my arm.”_

_“I--!” The elven girl gasped in mortification and swiftly turned over, now facing away from him._

 

Ellana paused and re-read the last few sentences. They were fine but this was dragging out too long. She changed the final stop into a comma.

 

_The elven girl gasped in mortification and swiftly turned over, now facing away from him, but he caught her slim arm in a strong grip, surprisingly so for a mage._

 

_"Still yourself!" He commanded, his deep voice holding just a hint of restrained passion. "Your movements could shake loose the rubble above us."_

_"I...apologize," she breathed, casting her eyes down. Once again, she was faced with the impressive vista of his chest, and felt a telling heat rise in her cheeks...and elsewhere._

_"Look at me," his tone softened and he lifted her chin to see her face. Even in the dim light of his magic, her blush was evident. "I am about to do something that may shock you. I ask only that you restrain your movements, or I will have to do so for you."_

_And he lowered his lips to hers. It was beautifully soft at first, his mouth so lovely as he gently kissed her and she responded in kind, shyness forgotten. The embrace quickly grew more heated, and Elisheva moaned in pleasure and surprise the first time Solveig nibbled at her lower lip. With each passing second he seemed a little wilder, a little rougher, and it thrilled her. At last he bore her down to the ground, his mouth having moved to kiss the side of her neck. She could feel his burgeoning arousal pressed against her hip, and straining valiantly against the confines of his leather trousers._

 

( _Yes_ , Ellana emphatically approved her own choice for his attire in the back of her mind. She had always wanted to see Solas in leather trousers and nothing else.)

 

_In her state of mounting need, Elisheva only vaguely registered hearing Solveig mutter a spell, but she noticed the effect immediately. His linen tunic, which she had been pulling at to try to remove it, had suddenly disappeared. The full glory of his naked torso was now displayed for her, and she ran her hands appreciatively over the well defined muscles of his back._

 

_"Your blouse," he growled impatiently, pulling at the flimsy fabric._

_"Take me, Solveig, take me!" She begged. The thrum of desire at the apex of her legs had grown too strong to ignore. Her need for him ached. And he needed no further urging. With smoldering intention he released his throbbing manhood from its leather captivity. In the shadows between them she could see well enough; its length and girth would have been large even for a human and on his elven frame it appeared massive._

_He ripped the chiffon to expose the entire expanse of her body, from her lusciously round breasts to the contoured plane of her stomach to the most treasured heat of her femininity._

_The apostate paid the requisite attention to each region in turn, lavishing her alabaster skin with kisses. He teased her ever so briefly, laving the peaks of her full mounds with his tongue until he heard her will break._

_"Solveig..." She moaned his name helplessly. Tendrils of lust--or was it some subtle magic of his?-- curled out from her now-quivering center to snake around her limbs. "Please..." She could not resist any longer. "I need you in me..."_

_He gave a carnal groan in response and, mercifully, acquiesced. Carefully positioning the head of his raging desire, he at last pushed his throbbing rod into her hot, wet channel._

 

Ellana had to pause and do several reviews of what she had just written. Then she poured a dram of one of the Grey Warden vintages (another theft) and sipped the smoky, spicy liquor to calm her nerves. She couldn't quite believe she was writing this. Part of her prayed no one would ever see it; another wanted to send Varric a copy and ask his opinion, anonymously of course.

 

_He reveled in the small whimpers she made as he moved within her, slowly at first. The formerly retiring girl now clung to his well-muscled arms, bucking her hips up to meet his in the desperate dance of desire. She arched against him wantonly as he thrust into her faster. She could feel his thick member hit the pleasure spot over and over, pounding a heady rhythm onto her senses, coaxing her ecstasy to higher and higher levels. Her body seemed to react and meet his beyond her control until, in a moment that felt like eternity she reached--_

 

Reached what? The Inquisitor took another sip of the surprisingly good whisky and glanced at the stack of reports she was supposed to read. This writing business was fun, but it was hard to think of all the euphemisms she needed to express sex. She cast around the wall decor for inspiration until her eyes found a small wooden carving of a snarling wolf perched on the mantle-piece.

 

_she reached the primal rapture of climax._

 

Ellana sighed and put down her quill. Just a bit more to add, then it would be finished and she could put the whole fantasy out of her mind. She ran a few lines through her head regarding Solas’-- no, Solveig’s-- moment of, er, completion and scrawled a few down before she forgot them.

 

_His release followed in the wake of hers, as her tight wetness squeezed the turgid muscle, milking the precious emission from him. He made no exclamation in his passion, only let out a shaky breath and kissed her once more, chastely._

 

Another celebratory sip was in order. She was starting to feel a little buzzed already. These Grey Wardens did not mess around with their alcohol. Another hour passed, during which she continued to ignore the stack of reports, instead devoted to re-reading the entirety of her text and making minor edits. A word replaced here and there, a few phrases clarified. She consulted a thesaurus that someone had thought to include when stocking the bookshelves behind her desk. It was going on a year since arriving at Skyhold and she had never touched this volume before, but it proved useful. There were only so many ways she knew of to say 'desire' and felt she had used it excessively.

 

When she was satisfied with the final product, she replaced the cap on the inkwell, laid the quill down next to it, and closed the journal she had been writing in. Then, one more sip of whisky to fortify her, and she could start on the work she was supposed to complete. The very real concerns of the Inquisition and all its contributors soon filled her mind, and the journal was pushed aside, then buried under layers of paper.

 

***

 

_About a week later..._

 

Solas always waited for the Inquisitor to leave her room before he made his weekly delivery of whatever notes he had been able to compile. Topics ranged from the strange shards she insisted on collecting, to his observations about the discrepancies of Veilfire brazier locations, plus any ideas he had regarding possible new uses for Elfroot. So far he had discovered it was efficacious in over fifty potions and poultices, but unlike Royal Elfroot, it was not fit for smoking, as it caused some very disturbing hallucinations (or so his test subjects had informed him).

 

New information this week was sparse and not of much urgency, so he waited patiently until she left for a war room meeting, then slipped into the tower and climbed the flights of stairs.

 

When he reached her room he immediately fixated on the irksome mess on her desk. It was consistently there, disorganized piles of papers, scrolls in no discernible order. Much of it was important information, and some quite sensitive, yet she always left it looking like a Snoufleur’s trough. He wondered how she could concentrate long enough to get anything done.

 

To make room for his notes, and to make sure she would notice them, he set to clearing a corner of space on the crowded surface. A small notebook, hidden under a few papers, tumbled off the desk when his hand knocked it. It landed face down, open, and he leaned over to pick it up. A few of the pages had creased where it had fallen and he made to smooth them when he noticed his own name at the top of the page, crossed out by a few lines. His eyes scanned the next few lines compulsively, even knowing he should just close the damn thing and put it back exactly where he had found it.  But he couldn’t, especially not after he found his name again, a few lines down, with several other names next to it. They were all scratched out save for one: 'Solveig'.

 

Strange. A woman’s name?

 

Next to her own was only a single suggestion, 'Elisheva'. Solas repressed a chuckle. She had not done a good job of disguising the characters, meant to be herself and him, clearly. This was intriguing. He skimmed down the page of jotted notes until he reached what appeared to be a first sentence and wavered at its precipice.

 

_Elisheva LeFevre watched the apostate’s retreating back..._

 

Damn it all, he kept reading. He wished he had a stronger curse to denounce what he was doing, and sometimes resented not having anything or anyone to swear by. The Maker was out of the question. He had heard many elves say 'by the Dread Wolf' or 'Fen'Harel take you!' But the first one seemed pompous and the second... Well, he couldn't very well take himself. Things would just get weird.

 

When he finished the story, he swept aside the feeling of guilt at intruding into something so private. Surely if she knew what he had just read she would pitch herself off the balcony, fate of Thedas be damned. But he knew what he had to do.

 

It was an elementary spell to copy the text of her writing onto a blank parchment. This, he tucked into a pocket after making sure there was no evidence of his visit to her rooms, and then headed to his own private chamber. He sat down at his small, tidy desk and spelled a quill to make another copy, this one with the names of her characters changed, because aside from how ridiculous they sounded, they were just too obvious. For her, he substituted 'Naftali Sauveterre'. Not a huge improvement, but at the very least not as embarrassing to say out loud. 'Solveig' (he wondered what on earth had possessed her to choose a woman's name for his stand in? It was a rather obscure one...maybe she hadn't realized,) he replaced with 'Wolfram', which may have been a bit self indulgent, but this was anonymous, after all.

 

Finally he added a blurb by way of introduction.

 

_Submitted for the Ladies' consideration: a captivating tale of concupiscence, authored by an Inquisitive Upstart._

  
After that, all it took to get the final product sent off to the offices of The Randy Dowager Quarterly in Val Royeaux was an intimidating glare to a passing runner. Solas pressed the twine-bound scroll into his hands with a word about 'urgent business', the boy nodded and bobbed, and it was done. If her story was accepted for publication, she would see it in print within a few months. Unperturbed by the potential consequences, Solas easily put the matter out of his mind.


	2. Part 2

Several months later, Lavellan considered herself a reformed woman. An offhand comment by Cassandra about truth and honesty had inspired her to discreetly return every single item of illegally obtained smut (though she kept the liquor). This included the hard to find copy of _Swords and Shields_ , and an even rarer edition of a semi-annual erotica journal from Tevinter ('Ars Amatoria, vol. 1’), which Skyhold's library had received during an ordering mix-up. She had taken it thinking no one would miss it, but apparently someone wanted it back. Most of all, she missed the issues of The Randy Dowager Quarterly, but Cole, of all people (or spirits?) had noticed how its absence affected her, and had quietly subscribed to it for her.

Even more astonishing, Solas had started to warm up to her, in small ways. He delivered his notes and reports in person, he had shown up a number of times to the morning exercise session she lead in the bailey. He even smiled when he greeted her, and no longer made a point of cringing so obviously at her mispronunciation of elvish phrases.

Of course, this newfound cordiality only fanned the flames of her secret interest, which had now reached the level of an undeniable crush. The story she had started on a whim, thinking it might relieve her of the stupid torch she carried for the apostate, had grown to include several chapters, written in bursts whenever she could get away with ignoring the vast array of responsibilities she had as the Inquisitor.

One morning, she came back to her quarters to bathe and dress following the predawn conditioning exercises. Solas had been there, and she was still privately exalting at his participation, since it had involved watching him wrestle, shirtless, with one of the blacksmith's apprentices. That had been a surprise, and a rather arousing one, not just for her--all the women who attended the training had slacked off a bit to steal glances at the two fit, attractive men rolling around together. At the end of the match, Solas had prevailed, not by strength, though he could hold his own, but by guile. Somehow he had used wit to win a brawl.

Distracted by this recollection (and it would certainly find a way into her ongoing story featuring Eli and Solveig), she almost missed the newly delivered issue of RDQ. It was a thinner edition than usual, but left in the same place as always on her nightstand. Before she stripped down to bathe, she picked it up and glanced at the preface, which took the same format in every issue.

_The Randy Dowager Quarterly "Spring Blooms" Edition_

_The Randy Dowager celebrates this season of whimsical color and flourishing renaissance with a special edition, having collected a bouquet of offerings from fresh talents. Blossoms open and heads throb (from pollen allergies, of course!)_

_The Randy Dowager: First times can be so fun, and for one of our newest auteurs, inexperience proves to be a virtue._

_The Lady herself says: the prospect of an elven apostate ravishing young maidens might prompt a quizzically raised eyebrow, though we find that when a Mage knows how to wield his staff properly, it is best to sit back and let him work his magic. Five scarves fluttered in shock out of five._

Ellana re-read the Lady's comment again. 'Elven apostate ravishing young maidens'... Sounded awfully familiar. And like a good premise. She flipped impatiently to the page where the mentioned story began and started reading.

After the first sentence she thought she felt her heart stop. It was her story, the one she had written in this very room. Questions flooded her mind, many of them idiotic, but the one she wanted to ask aloud was 'how did they get my story?!' It would have been almost exciting, were it not for the next thought to cross her mind: 'someone who reads this is going to recognize that it's me and Solas. Someone will put the pieces together.' And if someone truly did, the Inquisition would become a laughingstock. The prospect was sickening. She read the first sentence again, to make sure, and then the first paragraph. The names were different, but it was definitely hers.

Wait. Whoever had published this had changed the names. Or whoever had submitted it for publication. Perhaps this wasn't as much of a disaster as she thought it was. Obviously someone knew her secret, but whoever it was had taken steps to conceal her identity as well as Solas'. Ellana took a steadying breath and looked back at the review.

_Five scarves fluttered in shock out of five._

She smiled in spite of herself. When she took a moment to breath and settle down, the gesture didn't seem malicious. Whoever had done this seemed to think it was a favor for her. Varric or Cole were the obvious culprits, but the first, she couldn't imagine him reading what she had written and being able to keep quiet about it. As for the moon-eyed spirit boy... She reconsidered. That might be worth investigating.

***

The same day she found her story published, Solas sought her out mid-morning and treated her to another shock.

"Inquisitor Lavellan!” He caught her as she took a practiced shortcut through the rotunda on her way from the rookery to Josephine's study.

She halted, surprised. He almost never asked for a moment of her time; it was usually the other way around.

His casual tone did not blunt the marvel of what he said to her next. “Would you care to take your lunch today in the garden with me? I had planned on doing some observations and sketches of the rarer herbs. Perhaps you would find such an exercise beneficial to identifying the best specimens when gathering your own."

"I--" Lavellan's mouth hung open.

"Or you could bring something to read?" He smiled in a way she thought was just a bit too suspicious. She tried to keep her expression neutral. He knew about her favorite genre of literature?

"Maybe a game of chess would do us both some good," he amended.

There were so many things she wanted to do, including make accusations and demand answers, but she blurted out instead, "I'm terrible at chess!"

“You may recall I made other suggestions?” He responded lightly.

Why was he being so nice? Agreeing to this might yield clues. “Well… alright.”

He escorted her to the garden and ushered her to sit on one of the benches near the large planters. Currently, Deathroot, Ghoul’s Beard, and Spindleweed were among the herbs being cultivated. Elan, Adan’s assistant, was supposed to tend to the plants but Ellana suspected the woman often shirked these duties in favor of flirting with the agent Fairbanks. Indeed, the Spindleweed was looking particularly bedraggled. From her seat on the bench, Ellana leaned over and poked her fingers in the dirt. Much too dry.

Solas noticed what she was doing and summoned a serving boy. Along with a request for lunch, he sent the boy to bring back a jug of water for the soil. While they waited he quizzed her on botanical knowledge, which she supposed was his version of small talk. She didn't mind. His voice, even when discussing methods of properly drying and storing Ghoul's Beard cuttings, had a warm sensuality. He had mentioned once that elvish spoken correctly should sound like sweet nothings whispered in a lover's ear, and had been stoically oblivious to her blushing reaction to this description. Even when he spoke the common tongue it reminded her of the lost language he cherished.

Once their lunch was delivered, the garden had emptied of most of its usual occupants. The majority of Skyhold's residents did not have the luxury of high status to request their meals brought to them and so they ate at the Herald's Rest or in one of the several mess halls. Ellana had watched Solas complete several annotated sketches of the plants. His accuracy and detail amazed her; she didn't have the patience or steadiness of hand to accomplish anything close to what he could.

Her lunch companion also proved to be an excellent conversationalist. More than once she had worried and wondered if he was just a bore to talk to, but now he seemed happy to carry on about nearly any topic that came up, even swapping stories with her about Sera's pranks and their victims. She delighted in the time spent, in the grins and laughter that she hadn't ever expected from him. It made her almost giddy, and she felt silly in the back of her mind to realize she had the clichéd 'butterflies in stomach' sensation that she read about so often in the more light-hearted romances.

Eventually there came a lull in the conversation, and the silence allowed Ellana a jarring idea. _Could it have been him? He did find a way into her rooms every week, and he had asked her in that weird way about whether she had wanted to bring a book..._ Actually questioning him about it was another matter. It took only a moment for curiosity to get the better of her. The admission that she had written it...screw it. Already published. She had to know.

"Solas?" She said rather more sharply than she intended.

He had been studying a Dawn Lotus stalk closely and looked up at her tone. His expression changed in an instant. "If there is something sensitive to discuss, I suggest we remove to a more private location."

She nodded, and followed him up to one of the single rooms that overlooked the garden. He unlocked the door with a brass key and preceded her into the tidy room. It was dark even with candles lit in wall sconces, but cozy. A wooden bed and matching desk took up most of the floor space. The only personal objects seemed to be a large woven rug and an excessive number of books.

"This is your room?" Ellana asked, shutting the door behind her, then cursed herself for asking inane questions. She could feel and hear her heart beating, nervous excitement. Had he really known what she had been on the verge of asking? If he did, why wouldn't he just say so?

Instead of answering, Solas placed his sheaf of sketches on the desk and then turned to where she stood. Without realizing it, she had retreated so her back was at the wall. This room was already small, the door closed made it feel even more intimate. She was acutely aware of how much taller he was than her, and the broadness of his shoulders.

Her eyes met his, and from his expression she could tell that he had noticed her perusal. She tamped down the pulse of arousal. She'd had a goal in following him up here, and it hadn't been to get in bed with him.

 _That could change_ , a rebellious part of her challenged. This she repressed as well.

"Solas. When you've been leaving reports and such on my desk, did you-- I mean, have you-- by chance, seen anything...?" She struggled to stay vague, in case he wasn't the culprit.

He raised an eyebrow but stayed silent.

 _Bastard_ , she thought. He really was going to make her say it out loud.

"Anything...of a private nature?" She continued, fumbling for some phrase that would stir his conscience to admit his deception.

"I mean, I know I leave some sensitive documents in there, reports about troop movements, identities of Leliana's agents, ciphers and their keys..."

As she talked around the issue, he stepped closer to her.

"I did have some personal reading material as well, you've seen those bookshelves, right? There were some... _prurient_...items among them, actually I ended up getting rid of most of them. Long story. Anyway, you didn't see anything? I know I should really keep my desk better organized. One week I kept losing my personal journal. Not losing, I accidentally kept stacking it with all those journals and notes we've found during missions. But it could have been--"

Her halting monologue was stopped completely when he stripped his green linen tunic over his head. The dark grey-brown undershirt he wore looked like silk, and the way it draped on the muscles of his chest and shoulders left little to the imagination. Her loyalty to the original goal was promptly abandoned.

"I--what--?" Her heart was racing, pounding a panicked rhythm in her chest. The silk shirt had, ridiculously, reminded her of the brief fascination she'd had involving Solas in leather trousers. He was so close to her now, there was barely space for a nug to pass between them. Was he really...?

“I read your story, _lethallan_ ,” he confirmed, his voice low and dangerous. At the audible hitch in her breath, he added, “Please, do not misunderstand. It was…enjoyable."

"You read my story?" She repeated in a whisper, as if to reaffirm it was true.

"This was not a ploy to embarrass you," he said when he saw her expression.

"Then...?"

Even as he brought his hand up to caress the side of her face, she wasn't reassured. Lines around his eyes creased in a mischievous, knowing smile. Her heart nearly stopped. Solas leaned down, closing the last distance, and kissed her.

He had no reservation, and permitted none from her. His lips pressed on hers, urgently, demanding her acceptance. There was a blazing heat emanating from him, he seemed somehow hotter than a normal person. The brief arousal she had ignored earlier now flooded her senses, a slow heat of her own that settled to wait at her core.

Solas pulled away abruptly, breaking the kiss. He looked amused. "I must ask why you persisted in using euphemisms for everything. Body parts, for instance. I believe I recall a certain turn of phrase. It was… ah, yes, you put it so elegantly: his turgid muscle. Not so bad, as far as these things go.”

Ellana blushed upon hearing the explicit words. It did sound kind of silly out loud. Then she frowned. The loss of his embrace was the last thing she wanted right now. “Did you ask me to have lunch with you just so you could critique my writing?”

“On the contrary. I merely hoped to provide you the encouragement and support you need to continue your endeavor.” He kissed her again, pulling her closer this time, flush against his body. It encouraged her to grab his arms, and the solid muscle beneath her hands prompted another flicker of pleasure. Somehow he maneuvered them over to the bed and bore her down onto it. When he pulled away again she was pleased to see his pale face slightly flushed.

“Uh...really?” Her delayed response.

“Indeed. And also to persuade you to use plainer language in your descriptions of lovemaking.” His hand flat on her stomach began working its way up, taking her blouse along as it stroked small patterns against her skin.

“O-oh...” She held back a moan when his fingers reached the small rising curve of her breast.

“For instance, where you referred to ‘her hot, wet channel’, I suggest you simply say ‘cunt’. This is easier, is it not?” Resting on one forearm, his other hand descended to hold the curve of her hip. He bent his head to kiss where his fingers had been, and murmured against her smooth skin.

“Devote your words to describing it for what it is plainly. Yes, we still know you-- your heroine, rather--has a hot, wet channel.” Nudged her shirt up further, and her legs apart with his knee so he could rest between them.

“But how does it actually feel, for her?” His hand meandered from her hip to play at her waistband.

“How does it feel to the touch?” Dipped underneath the fabric and stroked teasingly at the edges of her labia.

“Solas…” Ellana tried to lift up to meet his fingers. A subtle pressure was building at her center. She moved to guide his hand herself but he caught both her wrists with a spell flicked from the hand he rested on. From his ministrations at her exposed chest, he looked up and caught her eyes, mildly disapproving.

“You would prefer a faster pace?” He chided. She wondered if he was referencing the quick build-up and climax of the first scene she had written.

“Ah… maybe a little?”

That smile again. She should learn not to trust it. “Very well.” He pressed one finger into her. Even wet, it was tight, she clenched around him and moaned. He wasted no time, stimulating her clit with his thumb while he crooked the finger inside her.

“Better?” He teased. She couldn’t respond.

“How does it taste when her lover brings his slick fingers to her mouth? How does it feel when he laps at her clit and sucks on it while his finger is in her sweet...?" He let the last word hang in the air un-uttered. His voice, normally so even, sounded low and raw. She wanted to hear him say it, yet her request was voiced only as a pleading moan.

"These are things your readers might like to know." He pressed a kiss to her sternum, then withdrew his hands and sat back on his heels. The outline of his hard cock was plainly visible through his trousers. For a moment Ellana’s eyes were drawn to his muscular thighs. Their exceptional shape had been a lasting inspiration in her writing.

“I believe you are adequately prepared,” he stated, licking the finger that had been in her. The corner of his mouth quirked in another smile. She watched raptly, wrists still bound above her head, as he flicked open a few buttons on his trousers and pulled out his erection.

“Turn over,” he ordered abruptly. She wanted to argue, or at least ask a few questions to calm herself, but obeyed. He helped her flip over, then positioned a cushion under her hips. His practiced hand tugged her breeches down to mid thigh to fully expose her ass. She wiggled a bit, nervous, until he put a comforting hand on her waist.

“Be still,” he said, more kindly this time. Then the thick head of his cock positioned at her entrance. The cool air seemed to touch the wetness of her arousal, a contrast to the overwhelming heat of his body at her back. He leaned over, brushed the short strands of her hair off her face. Ellana could already feel herself close to release; every nerve seared with pleasure. He pressed into her with measured control, not even an inch at a time, until he was as far in as he could go. His erection filled her wonderfully, a stiff thickness that she wanted to grind herself against for promised relief.

From his position above her, he dictated the rhythm, with careful attention to her expression and his hands alternately gripping and caressing her ass. He moved her on his cock, fucking as much for his enjoyment as for her own. One of her whimpers finally became submission; she gasped out, “S-solas… please…” She was so close, the fullness of his erection kept rubbing the perfect spot inside her, and damn him for knowing it.

He snaked one hand underneath her, his fingers found her clit. All he had to do was press and his thrusting completed it. She came, her voice peaking. No inhibition left. His pounding beat brought his climax just after hers. He stilled for an instant and then she could feel the slickness increase as he came inside her, and his breath and whispered praise against her neck.

Afterwards he moved off, released the spell binding her wrists, and removed the pillow. Throughout this Ellana remained quiet, sensual ecstasy relaxing into satisfaction. His last arrangement was to settle next to her and pull a light blanket over both of them.

He let the silence sit for barely five minutes before speaking, “It is my hope that our encounter provided you with more experience, so that you may continue writing.”

Ellana raised her head to look at him, feeling exasperated with him more than outraged. “What you did was still an invasion of privacy.” He refused to acknowledge what he had done wrong.

“I thought you moaning my name was an indication you enjoyed it,” he replied innocently.

“You incorrigible--! No, the part where you read my journal and then _published it_.”

“Ah. Then I owe you an apology. But I must ask, why were there no references to ‘shaft’? Or ‘Mage’s staff’, for that matter? It seems like a missed opportunity."

Ellana couldn't help grinning. "With his Mage's staff, he really knows how to make the sparks fly. Is that what you had in mind?" All she got was a dry glare in response. "Well, it was a good suggestion. Thank you. But I also didn't hear an apology." She would not let him avoid it with charming distractions.

"I am...sorry." The words appeared to truly pain him.

"Thank--"

"Sorry that I did not aid you sooner. Have you been writing all this time?" He shook his head; the pain had turned to chagrin. "No matter. If you are not averse to the idea, I propose we continue these instructional sessions for your edification."

Ellana stared at him, trying to find the right comeback to hurl at him, until she saw the mirth behind his studiously blank countenance. "You!" She broke out laughing and hit his arm. "I can't believe you. I'm going to kill off Solveig in the next chapter!" She threatened.

"I actually wanted to discuss that name with you..."

Their conversation continued late through the afternoon and into the evening. When she rose from Solas' bed, she didn't go far, just to his desk. They had eaten dinner in his chamber and he was now sleeping soundly, having given her a host of ideas. She picked up a quill, took a piece of parchment, and began a new story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading to the end! I appreciate any comments and/or critique... there are so many amazing authors and stories on here, it's intimidating to post something silly :( Anyway, apologies for the title, I finished this and then spent about three days just trying to think of a title, just to end up calling it by the throwaway title I originally had for it in googledocs.


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